Ecchymosis
by YouKnowMyType
Summary: When Joker escapes from Arkham Batman devotes everything to catch him. The Joker has a plan that will change Jim Gordon forever. Detective Ramirez of the MCU consults with Homicide to hunt down a serial killer who butchers women and drains their blood. Red X is a contract killer with a conscious. It'll all be worth it when she finally gets paid. Post TDK. Pre TDKR. Slight AU.
1. The Lead Up

**Joker's prison number is a direct reference to The Joker Blogs, a brilliant YouTube series. If you haven't watched it yet, I highly recommend.**

 **This is a canon-compliant AU. I envision Joker as a mixture of several past interpretations including Ledger and comics. Takes place between TDK and TDKR. There are no major OCs. Some minor-character retcons. Throughout the whole story, you'll recognize ideas and material from several comics and novels as well as the Nolan trilogy.**

 **ECCHYMOSIS  
CHAPTER ONE**

 _There were these two guys in a lunatic asylum._

 **Arkham Island, Arkham Asylum, Intensive Treatment Building**

Sleet fell from the blackened sky over one of Gotham City's oldest family homes. Situated on a small island, between the larger uptown and midtown islands, stood a dilapidating Arkham Asylum. Its crumbling walls, mismatched with old and new brick, resounded with the cries of the insane, evil, and a few geniuses. The mansion-turned-hospital separated into many buildings spread over every useable inch of the moss-covered rock. The stench of sewage in the Merchant River clung to the grounds. Even the rain seemed contaminated. Acidic. Filthy.

Two bright spotlights exposed the greenery (which was anything but green) surrounding the road that connected the island with midtown. The lights grew and reflected off a sleek black vehicle; the Batmobile squealed to a halt only three paces from disaster. There was a hissing release in air pressure as the tank's passenger compartment slid open. Gotham's caped crusader emerged from the opening, allowed it to shut again, then preceded through the rod-iron gate. The vigilante could be described in one word: intimidating. His physical capacity was apparent in his solidly muscled form and his mouth—the only visible part of his face—etched a scowl into his strong jaw.

Batman didn't bother to close the gate as he glided toward the Intensive Treatment building.

Outside the door of the large hospital building stood two aging men, one holding an umbrella and the other nursing a steaming paper cup. The eldest of the pair, one Jim Gordon, shoved his coffee into the hands of the detective standing next to him, Harvey Bullock. Gordon placed a hand on the brim of his hat as he scurried after The Batman. Gordon's lined face dripped with rain despite Bullock's umbrella. His stooped shoulders and the pursing of his lips were indicators of his exhaustion—not happy about leaving his wife home alone with the children at such a late hour—but still he followed the vigilante with determined footfalls.

Hours ago, Batman had called him—using a pay-as-you-go cell phone that had been delivered to Gordon's desk from an unknown source—asking for this favor. Batman's request had been damn-near unintelligible between the harsh growl of the vigilante himself and the spotty cell service. It had almost been amusing, playing "can you hear my now" with The Batman.

Once they could actually hear each other, Batman had asked to pay a visit to Arkham. Gordon had been more than reluctant. Batman was the number one most wanted man in the city. He had not had contact with Batman since he disappeared after the murder of Harvey Dent. It wasn't safe for Gordon to be working with the vigilante but, then again, it never had been. In the end, the commissioner knew he owed Batman the life of his son, and probably the lives of his daughter and wife as well.

The secretary would be paid off. That's why Bullock was there: he was the only detective Gordon knew—really knew—he could trust with this.

Drops of rain flicked off the end of the sleek black cape and made a trail of breadcrumbs for the commissioner to follow. In Gordon's pocket was the pay-as-you-go phone, gripped tightly in his fist. Part of him hoped Batman would continue to use it—continue to help people—while another part of him hoped it would never ring again. Either way, Gordon found some comfort

Batman stormed through the lobby. He ignored the protests of the warden's secretary then pushed his way through the double doors and into the Violent Ward. As Gordon nodded to the secretary, he almost smiled. A knickknack on her desk, a long translucent sign, read "You don't have to be CRAZY to work here – but it HELPS."

The vigilante's cape fluttered behind him, caught in the wind of his strides as he marched toward the end of the hall. Gordon took long tiresome steps after his… one wouldn't call them friends. But if Batman ever were to have a friend then Gordon would be it, he pandered to himself. His thoughts jumped track when he read the sign to his left, he was walking so quick it was a miracle he managed to make out what it said.

 _Crane J. 52576._

The further away the police commissioner moved the more he craned his neck to see the doctor—a fallen from grace Jonathan Crane—who gripped the bars of his cell door like lifelines, his knuckles splotching white. Crane's face was gaunt and his eyes irritated; his hair greasy and matted; nothing like the perfectly groomed man Gordon had remembered him to be. Distantly, he wondered about Crane's therapy. It had to be difficult to psychoanalyze a skilled psychiatrist.

Realizing his pace had fallen behind Batman's own, Gordon jogged back to his position behind the flapping cape. After rounding a corner he stopped to prevent a collision with the vigilante, feeling the jolt in his old knees. One of Arkham's security guards—an L. Bolton, according to his name tag—saluted the vigilante before unlocking the steel door that read:

 _Name Unknown 04479._

After Batman strolled into the cell, Bolton slammed it shut and locked the door. Batman didn't flinch at the sound. His focus was only on the cell's occupant. Engulfed in shadows, the Joker sat in a chair playing a game of solitaire with his signature cards. His scarred face was only just visible, cloaked in sharp shadows cast by the harsh florescent bulb gently swinging overhead.

Gordon peered into the cell through the bars, hesitant but willing to trust the masked man alone with the clown. Batman snatched up the only other chair in the room and sat down at the unoccupied side of the table.

The Joker snapped another card to the stack closest to the door with an echoing _FNAP_.

"Hello," Batman growled, feeling awkward and uncomfortable, "I came to talk."

 _FNAP_. The Joker didn't pause in his game and said nothing. He drew a new card from the dwindling deck.

"I've been thinking lately," Batman continued, his voice lacking its usual harsh inflection, "about you and me. We're going to kill each other."

 _FNAP_. Gordon flinched at the sound as he watched from behind the bars, outside the door. Batman kept going, growing ever the more agitated, "Maybe you kill me; maybe I kill you. I just wanted to know that I tried to stop that outcome. Just once."

 _FNAP_. The vigilante's fists clenched. Then he snatched Joker's hand, forcing the clown to stop his petulant game. Joker snatched back his hand, clutching it as if burned. Batman continued his speech, pointing at the madman, "I don't want your death on my…"

Then he noticed something odd about Joker's hand, still clutched by its counterpart. Smudges. Batman turned his own hands to face him, and saw the smears of pale make-up on his glove.

"…hands?" Batman's voice trailed off. In a flash his head snapped up as he reached out, snatching the criminal's face and pulling him forward.

"H-hey…" the clown stammered, finally speaking up as Batman pulled his face into the light and more makeup streaked away at his touch. Wrong. All wrong. Smooth features and ugly teeth: this young man wasn't the Joker. "Hey, wait a minute! Don't touch me! I have rights! You're not allowed to-," the impostor cried. Batman held him still, wiping away the red that marred the lips.

"Where is he?" The vigilante's voice wasn't harsh or gruff. It was exploding with rage, thunderous and filled with the promise of pain.

"Oh, God! No-!"The impostor begged. His face contorted and strained as he tried to pull away.

Batman was shouting, hysterical. " _Where is he_?"

Gordon started from behind the door as the criminal screeched.

"Get him off me! Get him off!"

"Christ, he's gone berserk!" Gordon shouted at Bolton, hands like a vice on the guard's shoulder, shaking him for attention. "Open the door!"

The more the inmate screamed, the more Bolton fumbled with the cell's lock. The second he got it open, Gordon was already inside, "That's enough! You know the laws as well as I do!" Batman paused in his assault, and the young man whimpered. Gordon blew air out his nose, feeling anger at the sting of betrayal, "If you hurt him-"

"Commissioner," Batman interrupted, a snarl lacing his words and his jaw pushed into the hard rubber mask. "Take a look…"

Confused, the commissioner looked to the prisoner. Gripped in the claws of The Batman, a man who was certainly _not_ the Joker pleaded to him for help. Realizing the situation, Gordon froze and his jaw may as well have unhinged. Batman turned his attention to the inmate, "Now, I'm going to ask again.

 _Where is he_?"

 **\~/**

 **End Chapter One  
Special thanks to Alan Moore and Brian Bolland.**


	2. On Leather Wings

**ECCHYMOSIS  
CHAPTER TWO**

 **Midtown Island, Coventry, near East City Park**

Gotham City was a labyrinth of cold concrete, wrought iron, and old neon signs. The streets bathed in the white fog of city lights refracting off of the raindrops falling from the stormy midnight sky. Urban noise resounded off buildings into narrow alleys, softening at the charcoal shadowed rooftops. Somewhere far below in the rat's maze, the sound of a car backfiring then a slight but unmuffled chime touched keen ears. Several moments passed before musical tinkling of glass morphed into the familiar sound of a burglar alarm. Some kind of handgun bit back at the screaming of the alarm system.

High up the walls of a crumbling church sat a shadow among the mounted gargoyles, offsetting the symmetry of the building. Two eyes shined through the shadows. As a taxi sped by on the streets below, its lights broke the guise of the shadows and revealed the anomaly to have disappeared.

\~/

Quick footfalls masked by the ebbing rain alerted the ears of the man occupying the alley. Scruffy looked up from his rusted burn barrel to see an ominous shadow slinking along the uneven brick wall, approaching him. His skin was dark and leathery, filled with age spots and creased by wrinkles.

His heartbeat quickened and his blood galloped through his veins. In terror, he covered himself from the imminent assault. A stroke of bravery and perhaps what little pride remained in his body made him peak a look at his attacker.

His depth perception adjusted, bringing on a wave of nausea. Through his shaky vision, he could make out a silhouetted figure—outlined by the distant street lights—was sprinting down the alley. Now that Scruffy looked, he couldn't help but notice how small the figure was, compared to the massive shadow it had cast on the brick walls. It took only moments, but the figure flashed passed the old man, a blur of black like a blind spot from a tumor.

Staring, all Scruffy could do was wonder how in the hell did the figure's hood not fall down while they were running? As it was, Scruffy couldn't get the hood on his jacket to stay up in a light breeze much less if he were running. Did the laws of physics somehow not apply to this hoodie? Was there a special place to buy such a physics-defying hoodie?

A small gust of air followed the figure's departure. Scruffy watched the figure's feet leave the ground and take three large stomps along the wall. As the figure slowed down, Scruffy could make out a large red 'x' along the back of the hoodie. The figure's calloused hands latched onto the ladder of a fire escape and yanked up their strong frame. After a few seconds of speeding up the creaking metal stairs, the figure disappeared into the midnight sky.

"Damn, cher. I could use a hoodie like that this Christmas."

\~/

Underneath the glare of the street lights, adrenaline that could only come from a pull of a trigger washed over Steve Bloom. He needed cash, he needed it real bad. But considering his location, smack dab in the middle of Black Mask territory, one could argue he was thrill-seeking. If Sionis ever found out about Bloom's nightly activities, the consequences would be horrible. He shuddered to think.

A battle-cry alerted him to the above attack and he turned to intercept, gun at the ready. Something heavy crashed onto his broad shoulders and sent both Bloom and his assailant to the ground in a collective heap. His gun fired as it struck the sidewalk, and then clattered away. Bloom didn't feel his head hit the ground until it had bounced back and slapped the asphalt a second time. The attack was quick and efficient; he had no chance of retaliation.

Bloom's eyes locked onto the figure, concealed by the shadows of street lamps, crouching over his chest. Through blackening vision, he mapped out what must have been the shadow's upper body and hooded head. His heart thumped in his chest like a terrible bird escaping its cage. The figure twitched and Bloom felt a bone-y fist slam into his face, his head slapping against the pavement again. With a grunt Bloom's head fell back against the ground. An exhale of breath signaled his decent into unconsciousness.

Red X rose from her crouch over Bloom, her shape short but strong. Glass crunched beneath the soles of her heavy armored boots. Shifting to the side of the fallen man, she tucked the toes of her boots underneath the unconscious body and forced him to roll over.

From above, a shadow fell across her form. Wings flapping sounded close-by, like a flag in the wind, nearly inaudible under the siren of the alarm. Red X shifted her gaze to the high up ledge she had leaped from moments ago. Glistening wet with the rain, black against the blackened sky, a giant winged beast hunched forward. The monster paused at the building's ledge and cocked its head in her direction.

Moonlight glanced across its back and massive shoulders. Light slid down its craned cabled neck and across its skull: striking a triangle at one pointed bat's ear. The shadow rose to stand, its wings now a fluttering cape wrapped tight around the body of a man. It emitted a malignant energy, a silent promise of harm. Even the grainy light of the street lamps seemed too afraid to approach it.

As she stared up at The Batman, Red X stood still. For several agonizing seconds, nothing happened and part of her was glad for this. She felt the cold twist of anticipation in her gut like the coil of fingers around her organs.

The Batman was about to kick her ass.

Without a sound or second glance, the gargoyle took a running start before leaping from the roof, cape spread out like wings as it glided through the sky. The shadow faded into the darkness. Then it was gone.

In equal measure, confusion and relief struck her like the back of a hand. Why did he leave? Batman, The _Goddamn_ Batman, had witnessed her commit assault and just… did nothing? Well, she thought, Batman certainly didn't know what she was capable of—didn't know what she'd been paid to do. His mistake was her lucky break.

When many moments passed by uneventful, Red X's hooded head finally turned towards her victim. It took only a minute of an efficient and practiced nature for her to pick up and place Bloom inside the store window. Bloom's neck was limp and shifted in an odd angle. The red tape she placed across his face and around his head formed an 'X' over top his features.

She needed to mark all of her kills as her own. She _needed_ to.

The tape dug into Bloom's skin too tight, the surrounding flesh swelling up. Red X drew a handgun from her holster and allowed the end of the barrel to press into the thin skin of Bloom's temple.

 _BANG!_

Blood exploded against the store's display, rebounding and flecking her costume.

Red X left the scene, fighting nausea.

 **\~/**

 **End Chapter Two  
Special thanks to Frank Miller.**


	3. Streets of Gotham

**ECCHYMOSIS** **  
CHAPTER THREE**

 **Gotham County, Sommerset, Home of Anna Ramirez**

"…the body of twenty-eight year old Lauren Simmons was found after being dumped near the Gotham River. A group of teenagers walking along Palisades Avenue found the body around 6am this morning…"

On TV the reporter continued her story as Anna Ramirez slid onto the couch. She folded her legs beneath her and furrowed her meticulously groomed eyebrows. Without looking away from the screen, she picked up her notebook from the coffee table and turned to a blank page. Adjusting her thick-rim glasses, Ramirez began scribbling messy notes.

· Victim dead several days before discovery

· Body found nude and mutilated. àWhat kind of mutilation? Need specifics.

· Parents say victim was well liked. No known enemies.

· Victim lived alone. Happy, well-liked. No known enemies.

· No spouse or nearby relatives.

Hearing a loud barking come from outside, Ramirez didn't turn away from her note-taking. The one barking sound was the prelude to a symphony. She blew air through her nose before stating just above a mutter, "Hang on a second, guys."

Ramirez was certain that Commissioner Gordon would agree to the MCU's involvement in the Simmons murder. Part of her job was assisting other units in the GCPD when things got to be too weird, which happened often in Gotham. And she couldn't ignore a crime with this level of brutality, especially when committed against a woman. Crimes against women were Ramirez's specialty—where she held the most experience in her career as a detective.

Noticing the barking had not ceased and now included whining and the sound of nails scratching the wood of her back door, Ramirez called out—this time louder. "Hang on a sec!"

After she finished jotting down her notes, Ramirez left her notebook on the couch and walked her way to the kitchen at the back of the house. The back door in her kitchen screeched open as she let the three antsy dogs inside. "Alright, alright. Come on, guys. Inside."

The three mutts lumbered their way inside, clumsily knocking into her knees as they passed her. " _Excuse you_ , Giagantor," she scolded as the largest dog jumped up, placing his dirty paws directly across her chest. When his paws returned to the ground and she saw the filth he had left on her previously crisp shirt, she knew she would have to change. Ramirez muttered under her breath, "Great. _Perfect_ ," as she ran a hand through her dark hair.

They were big dogs, arguably too big to be living in her small townhouse with her even smaller yard––which lined up with her neighbors' similar properties on either side. The dogs had been her mother's and, after her mother had passed away, Ramirez couldn't just give them up.

As she fed the dogs in the kitchen, a commercial blared from the TV about some kind of kitchen knife. "World Class! It's a miracle blade!" The deep disembodied voice insisted as a man sliced into a cantaloupe, showing off the sharpness of the kitchen cleaver.

As Ramirez watched the news, she drank a cup of coffee in silence.

One of the anchors in the studio, a man too tan and clean shaven, had since moved on from the relatively short report on Lauren Simmons. He stacked the papers in front of him, busying his hands. "Many of you viewers might remember Floyd Lawton as the hitman alias 'Deadshot' who was arrested just two years ago. After a lengthy trial, Lawton was found guilty and sentenced to death."

The anchor allowed a pause, as if allowing the viewer to process small amounts at a time. "Lawton," he continued, "is exhausting his last appeal in an attempt to avoid the death penalty. Tomorrow night, GCN will be broadcasting live from the Gotham City Court House—"

A glance at the clock, told her she had a little over one and a half hours to get to work. It would be in her best interests to leave in the following twenty minutes.

"I'm sorry to interrupt, John. We've just received alarming information from the GCPD," chattered the female anchor, blonde and busty. Ramirez's head perked up. "Early this morning, doctors at Arkham Asylum discovered the Joker has again escaped custody. As of now there have been no reported sightings of the Joker. Police Commissioner James Gordon has made no comment…"

Ramirez cursed.

\~/

 **End Chapter Three  
Special thanks to Tim Burton, Sam Hamm, and Warren Skaaren.**


	4. Oh FNAP

**ECCHYMOSIS** **  
CHAPTER FOUR**

 **Gotham County, Wayne Estate, The Batcave**

 _JOKER. CLASSIFICATION: DELTA 0-2. PRINT FILE.  
ENLARGEMENT: ALL SCREENS._

The only illumination on Batman's figure was from the large screens of the supercomputer. Each screen sported an image or file detailing the Joker and his allies. The vigilante's fist clenched around a playing card: the joker. He'd found it hours earlier in the Amusement Mile outside of the Ace Chemicals building. Either it was a coincidence, or The Joker was mocking him. Either was a likely possibility.

 _FNAP_! He snapped the card onto the console, the skin of his knuckles pulled tight over the joint beneath the gloves. His lip twitched in irritation as he read Joker's file, despite having already memorized. He had spent months on repetitive updating and reviewing since the Joker's initial appearance almost a year ago.

 _THE JOKER_  
REAL NAME: UNKNOWN.  
ALIAS(ES): JACK WHITE.  
AGE: UNKNOWN.  
HAIR COLOR: GREEN.  
EYE COLOR: GREEN.  
AFFILIATIONS: SALVATORE MARONI (FORMER).  
ABILITIES: INTELLIGENT. CHEMIST. HAND-TO-HAND COMBAT.  
OCCUPATION: CRIMINAL.  
LOCATION: UNKNOWN. |

Batman noticed a glare of light shown on the main screen, reflecting off of the glass tube where he stored his costume, only twenty feet behind him.

"Master Bruce?"

Inwardly startled, Bruce glanced at his friend and father-figure, Alfred. The butler sat a tray of refreshments on the computer's console, covering several opened files, "Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?"

Holding out his removed cape and cowl, Bruce sighed, "No. That's all, Alfred." Bruce's attention uselessly returned to the monitor. "I've been trying to figure out what he intends to do. It's almost impossible!"

Alfred pursed his lips gently as Bruce rambled on. "But I don't know him, Alfred. All this time and I don't know who he is anymore than he knows who I am." The younger man hunched over as he pushed his hands down on the console, "How can two people hate so much without knowing each other?"

A sigh escaped Alfred's nose and he thought for a moment before speaking. "The Joker," he began with a slow and purposeful cadence, "is a chaotic man. You don't know his larger goals because he has none. This is a man without purpose, without cause." Alfred stared meaningfully at Bruce, hoping to make him understand. "And reasonable people," the butler insisted, "cannot understand a man who has no discernible reason."

"Yes, Alfred, I know," Bruce patronized. "'Some men just want to watch the world burn.' I get it. But this isn't like your bandit in Burma. I can't just burn down a forest and hope The Joker dies in it," Bruce said dryly as he turned and walked to the empty tube.

"Clearly you haven't found the right forest, sir." Alfred commented dryly. Bruce almost smirked at him and only just stopped the roll of his eyes.

The younger man finished dressing as his friend spoke again. "Perhaps you should consider allowing the police to find The Joker," Alfred's old eyes gazed into Bruce's back, pleading him to listen to reason. "You hung up the armor damn well near a year ago. I'd say Commissioner Gordon has proven he can catch The Joker."

"You _know_ I can't do that, Alfred." Bruce growled,

Attempting a different approach, the butler reasoned, "Master Bruce The Joker is dangerous—"

"And that's why I have to find him before he can hurt any more innocent people—"

"I'm worried for you, sir." Alfred insisted, mildly annoyed at the interruption and growing angrier the more he spoke. "You can hardly bloody walk without that contraption on your leg, thanks to him. And he killed over twenty innocent people _including_ the woman you love. What will he take from you this time?"

"There's nothing left to take." Bruce hadn't thought about his words before he spoke but, though in hindsight he might have rephrased, the lack of mulling hadn't dulled the truth of his statement. He had nothing left, no one. His parents, Rachel: gone. All he had left was the manor: empty both literally and metaphorically.

Alfred felt insulted but could only respond solemnly, "I certainly hope that's not true, sir."

A weighted silence hung above them like a guillotine, ready to fall. Bruce felt a small ache of guilt in the space behind his navel but said nothing. What _could_ he say?

"I have to find him, Alfred," Bruce muttered finally, "I can't sit back and let people get hurt while I hide."

"They'd be more successful catching him without the distraction of chasing after you as well."

"Gordon agreed to let me speak to him at the asylum for old time sake," Bruce admitted, beginning to grow irritable. "He's willing to pull the police back for now if I can stay out of sight."

Alfred practically scoffed, "I doubt you'll manage that. You never have before."

"Alfred if you're not going to help: _fine_. But The Batman is going out there with or without you." Bruce snapped, pinching the bridge of his nose like one might do to counter a headache, likely more for a show of annoyance rather than an actual headache.

The butler pursed his lips, silent for many moments before reluctantly speaking again. "Will you be working on other investigations as well? Or is this specially for The Joker?" Alfred's tone suggested nothing less than distaste—a tone Bruce had never heard much of from the normally teasing old man. The tone suggested to Bruce that he had better respond negatively or risk losing any assistance from the butler.

Bruce shook his head. "No. The police can handle everything else."

Alfred almost seemed to accept that as a compromise. He blew a short breathe from his nose then spoke again—calmer than before. "The best place to start is by finding The Joker's way out of the asylum."

After another moment of silence, Bruce inquired, "Do you have a theory already in mind."

"Well, sir, I don't imagine the Joker has many friends." Alfred's tone was testy but Bruce did his best to ignore it. Alfred continued, "But considering The Joker managed to escape without causing any sort of alarm, we have to assume he had help from someone with access to both him and the security feed."

Bruce frowned, "You checked the surveillance videos already?"

The elder man nodded. "Looks like a system glitch. The surveillance jumps from midnight to two in the morning."

Bruce's eyes glazed over, entering the lift on autopilot. "It's been erased."

"Seems so, sir," Alfred offered. "But it's not just the cameras in the Intensive Treatment building, but all of the cameras on the island."

"That seems a bit excessive."

"I thought so too.

Silence followed. The younger man practically scowled, deep in thought, as he pressed a few buttons that ordered the lift to ascend into the manor above. As the elevator started, Bruce looked to the butler. "Call Lucius and tell him I won't be coming in today."

"Of course, sir." Alfred said from his spot outside the elevator, looking up at Bruce as he rose. Sounding bland, the butler added, "As you're going upstairs, I don't suppose you plan on eating the breakfast I made you?"

He got no response.

"Right. Just bloody well leave me down here."

\~/

 **End Chapter Four  
Special thanks to Alan Moore, Brian Bolland, and Chris Nolan.**


	5. Pants on Fire

**ECCHYMOSIS  
CHAPTER FIVE**

 **Downtown Island, Old Gotham, Gotham City Police Department**

With The Joker's escape from Arkham, Commissioner Gordon—and every other detective in the MCU—was suffering from a serious case of tunnel vision. Ramirez found herself unsurprised by, and yet still impressed with, the chaos ensuing inside the small department. Detectives and profilers argued and counseled together, trying to determine Joker's most likely hiding places and associates, while volunteers and desk clerks worked what Ramirez assumed was a tip line.

The city was in full panic and the poor bastards working the phones had to listen to the panicked calls from anyone commuting to work over a bridge or ferry.

Dodging and shoving through coworkers, some of which bothered to look up from work and greet her (though she herself didn't bother greeting anyone), most of Ramirez's colleagues were too absorbed to so much as complain if she shoved them or knocked into their elbow. They were a horde of zombies and the atmosphere was throwing Ramirez off.

Even though she had practiced what she might say to Gordon on the subway ride to work, Ramirez didn't feel prepared for the argument ahead of her.

Ahead, she saw the graying head she was looking for and made chase. Gordon was dictating orders to Detective Bradley, who jerked his head in affirmation almost rhythmically. By the time Ramirez was close enough, she caught a "Yes, sir," that she hoped was the tail end of the conversation.

"Sir," she called. Gordon didn't even look up as he dismissed Bradley. Gordon turned away and to the open door of his office. Ramirez tried again, "Sir," this time more forceful.

A grunt of acknowledgement from Gordon was all she got as he turned toward her, looking exasperated. He looked her up and down as she approached; his hands rested on his hips as his eyebrow rose warily.

"You just get here?" He asked when she stopped in front of him.

Her head jerked in a nod, mimicking Bradley before her. As she spoke, she had to raise her voice over the loud voices of her coworkers behind her. "Yeah. I had to drop off the LaMonica file at the D.A.'s office." Ramirez glanced behind her in irritation as she felt her throat strain. "Can we speak in your office?"

Gordon nodded in dismissal, looking around at the scramble of detectives around them before he beckoned her into his office. He yanked the door closed behind them.

"I don't have a lot of time, detective," Gordon said, not moving away from her or the door and not offering her a seat. It was obvious he expected the conversation to go quickly. Ramirez wasn't so sure.

Nodding again, Ramirez got straight to the point. "There's a case in Homicide we should work on—"

"You do know The Joker escaped last night?" Gordon asked incredulously.

"Yes, sir," Ramirez pushed, trying to express the importance of her words. "But, the body of a young woman was found washed up by the Gotham River this morning. Most of my detective experience is in Special Victims and, in all honesty sir, I think I'll be of better use to Homicide."

Exasperated, Gordon sighed. "Detective, I understand where you're coming from but I have a city in _full-blown panic_ with that psychotic on the loose." He shrugged his shoulders, as if the situation was out of his hands. "I need my best people here."

"With all due respect," Ramirez insisted, "You've got almost every other cop and detective in the department working on finding him, most of them more qualified than I am. It's not going to make a difference if I'm here or not."

Unconvinced, Gordon's voice grew sterner. "The Joker requires our full attention, Detective."

"Do you remember last year when Joker was running around Gotham? Do you remember what happened to your family?" Ramirez asked viciously. "Because it wasn't The Joker who killed my partner and it sure as hell wasn't The Joker who tried to kill your family."

Completely taken aback, Gordon spluttered, "And you think The Batman has something to do with a body in the Gotham River?"

On a roll, Ramirez didn't bother to lower her voice as she scorned. "We _both_ know I don't mean Batman."

Gordon fell silent and he leaned back slightly, away from the woman in front of him. She was one of the few who knew about the fall of Harvey Dent. When the wound of Dent's betrayal had still been fresh, his boy still traumatized, Ramirez had served as a constant reminder of That night.

During his twisted vengeful killing spree, Dent had cornered Ramirez and beat her down—demanding her to lure Gordon's wife and kids to an abandoned building: where Dent had planned to punish Gordon for Rachel Dawes' death, by killing the person Gordon loved most.

Despite the danger to her life, Ramirez had refused before being knocked unconscious with the butt of Dent's pistol. Then his house phone received a call from Ramirez's cell. His wife told him later that Dent had called her with an emergency and given her an address for them to meet. Dent had lured Gordon's wife and the children into the trap despite Ramirez's efforts.

For Ramirez, he felt a confusing mixture of emotions. Gordon didn't know wither he should feel grateful for her efforts or angry at her failure, no matter how unreasonable the latter was.

Oblivious to his thoughts, Ramirez continued. "But _my point_ is, we can't abandon the rest of the city in pursuit of one guy or innocent people are going to get hurt. What are we saying to the people of Gotham by ignoring them and their safety in favor of The Joker?"

"We're hardly ignoring them, Detective," Gordon couldn't help but point out. "Homicide is full of very capable detectives."

Huffing in growing irritation, Ramirez flexed her neck. "The body was naked and mutilated. Someone _took the time to torture her_ , Commissioner. The MCU has intervened for way less."

"Alright." Gordon said suddenly and Ramirez fell short. "Alright, Ramirez," Gordon repeated. It was a gut decision. He couldn't waste any more time on it and if he told her "no" again, she would just continue to argue. Not to mention part of him felt like perhaps he owed her for her loyalty, at least.

Baffled, the detective swallowed. "Why the quick change?"

Gordon opened the door to his office. "Consider it good faith." He didn't let her respond before he waved her out. "You know the drill. Fill out the paperwork and go. Send me your reports but don't expect me to read them any time soon."

\~/

The Homicide detective working the Simmons case was a man who looked to be in his late forties or early fifties with a large bald head and a shadow of unkempt facial hair along his strong jaw line. He kept his jaw clenched tight whenever he closed his mouth, appearing constantly irritated.

"I'm Detective Ramirez. Major Crimes." She greeted. "Commissioner Gordon sent me to consult on the Simmons investigation. Sergeant Essen said you were the lead? Detective Allen, right?"

His handshake was brief, a gentle squeeze and quick jerk. Ramirez gripped his hand too tight but let go easily.

"Ah." Crispus Allen inhaled deeply and exhaled as he replied, "Yeah I should've guessed one of you MCU guys would make your way down here. I'd thought you were too busy with the Joker's escape to bother. Silly me."

Sensing the hostility in his tone, Ramirez raised her brows before swallowing back a retort. "Well, we have plenty of capable minds working on apprehending The Joker," she spoke, trying to give her best political response. "Crimes of this nature really get our attention. We thought you could use some help."

"Yeah, yeah," he muttered. With a reluctant sigh, Allen's eyes sized her up. "Your timing couldn't be more convenient, detective. I was just about to head to the morgue." Clearly not looking to prolong the discussion, Allen turned on his heel and began a steady pace. "Come with me."

Part of her wanted to point out that catching him in time to view an autopsy wasn't exactly what she would call convenient. It was closer to inconvenient, actually. Electing not to voice her thoughts, fearful that Allen might think less of her if she revealed her squeamishness, Ramirez fell into step behind him. Allen didn't bother to speak to her as they traveled past the elevator and into the staircase, nor did he even once look to see if she was still behind him.

Oh yeah, she thought, he definitely didn't like her. Off to a great start then.

On the main floor—in the hall outside the morgue—the two came across an erudite man in an expensive suit and shined shoes. He had been sitting on a wooden bench at the bottom of the stairs, rising when he saw them pass him. He'd obviously been waiting for them, or at least for Allen.

"Detective Allen," he called. The two turned to meet the man as he walked to them. Somewhere in his late-thirties, with dark features and broad shoulders; his stringy hair fell behind his wire-frame glasses and brushed his eyes. Ramirez felt like she should know him but she couldn't place where she had met him before, much less place a name. Thankfully, Allen was quick to introductions.

"Oh, Detective, this is Doctor Jeremiah Arkham: warden of Arkham Asylum." Allen stepped to the side, waving a patronizing hand between them and allowing Ramirez to shake the young doctor's hand. "Doctor, this is Detective Ramirez from Major Crimes… Looks like she'll be joining us for the foreseeable future."

"It's a pleasure to meet you," the doctor greeted cordially, nodding his head respectfully as he adjusted his glasses. "Can I ask—have we met before?"

Relieved that the doctor had recognized her too, Ramirez nodded, reaching for his hand. "Yeah, I think so, but I'm embarrassed to say I don't remember how." Ramirez gripped his hand too tight in their handshake, as she was always sure to do––men were always surprised when women had strong handshakes. His grip was firm and she found herself smiling at him.

Arkham returned a gentle smiled, waving his hand dismissively. "Don't be embarrassed. I consult on many cases so it's probable we've worked together before."

Accepting the mystery for what it was, Ramirez nodded at him. Licking her lips, she shifted her glasses further up her nose as she questioned politely, "Are you consulting on the Simmons case, Doctor?"

She wondered why he would be consulting on a homicide when a patient of the Joker's renown had escaped his asylum just the day before. Then again, the MCU rarely brought on outside consultants and Arkham himself probably had little to nothing productive to aid in the Joker's capture unless he himself was the Joker's psychiatrist. Considering he was there with them, Ramirez found that unlikely. She wanted to ask him directly, but found it might have been rude to do so.

"I got the call early this morning, when the body was first discovered," Arkahm explained with an accompanying nod, shifting his own glasses upward his nose. "I didn't realize I would be working with another consultant. I hope I'm not intruding?"

Catching the doctor's questioning tone, Allen interjected, "You're fine, Doctor. Ramirez here only just showed up, so if _anyone_ is intruding… Well. I didn't even know we'd be working with her until a couple minutes ago."

His tone was blunt and accusatory; Ramirez found herself in an awkward staring contest with the nearby wall. Uncomfortable with Allen's obvious irritation, Ramirez sucked in a heavy breath before quipping, "And we're already best friends."

Arkham found her notably more amusing than Allen, who scoffed through a flexed jaw. Allen turned from them and entered the morgue. Exchanging a glance with the doctor, Ramirez ran a hand across the nape of her neck—mussing up her ponytail.

"After you, Doctor," she directed with her hand.

 **\~/**

 **End Chapter Five** **  
 **Special thanks to Doug Moench.****


	6. Crimson Mist

**Trigger warning: Graphic description of an autopsy and very brief non-graphic mention of a possible sexual assault.**

 **ECCHYMOSIS  
CHAPTER SIX**

 **Downtown Island, Old Gotham, Gotham City Police Department** , **Morgue**

"The victim," Coroner Gunt began, an older man with the numb look of a person who saw this kind of brutality every day, "was found nude and stabbed exactly four times in the chest and stomach. Minimal defensive wounds. Blunt force trauma to the head."

Allen stood to the left of the coroner, alone on his side of the examination table. Ramirez and Doctor Arkham stood opposite him, their focus on the body between them. Naked, baring stab wounds as well as cuts from the autopsy, was Lauren Simmons: age 28, pretty, white, slim build, with long dark hair. Ramirez tried not to focus on the unnatural stillness or unnerving pale blue tinge of the skin. Swallowing down the taste of bile in the back of her throat, she asked a question she didn't really want the answer to. "Any sexual assault?"

Gunt shook his head. "I thought there might be initially because of the state the body was found and ligature bruising around her legs and arms. But thankfully she was spared that particular horror. There's a puncture wound on her neck though," he gestured to the mentioned area, "which suggests she was drugged."

"There are burn marks on her fingertips. Common among junkies." Distantly, she observed the black markings underneath the fingernails of the victim's right hand. Frowning, Ramirez inquired the next obvious question. "Was she drugged or was she using?"

"Good eye. Miss Simmons here often participated in recreational drug use—likely cocaine or heroin—as you can see by the punctures in her left elbow." Gunt drawled, "But an addict wouldn't inject themselves in the neck. The elbows or thighs are easier to hide."

When Ramirez didn't respond, Arkham inquired, "What can you tell us about the murder weapon?"

She appreciated the distraction, Arkham's question drawing attention away from her hesitance. When she glanced at him, she noticed him look away from her and toward the coroner as if he didn't want to be caught looking at her.

"Take a look at the wounds." Gunt responded, leaning over the body and pulling at the skin around the stab wounds, trying to help them see better. Ramirez swallowed back bile again. "All four of these wounds are edged with ecchymosis––that's bleeding underneath the skin. It's usually caused by bruising. The ecchymosis means Miss Simmons was alive when she was stabbed. All four times.

"This one here," he continued, motioning towards the ugliest area, just above the navel. "This one is the deepest wound, most likely the first. You can see the bruising here is more significant. These are contact bruises from the hand holding the knife rather than a hilt or grip––which the blade obviously doesn't have."

Gunt set the maximum blade width at one inch, with a single sharp edge––smooth rather than serrated––that tapered to an up-curved point. Deeply driven, the stabs had been inflicted with considerable force. Although the precise blade length was difficult to determine, he estimated it to be around eight inches.

"Carving knife?" Allen spoke for the first time since entering the room, sounding sickened.

"Precisely," Gunt answered. "A butcher knife."

In addition to the four separate stab wounds of deep penetration, any of which could have been the cause of death, there was a single vertical slit––roughly an inch long––lightly scored down the center of the victim's forehead.

"In that location," Gunt explained, "the body's overlaying tissue is at its thinnest. It would have been easy for _any_ blade to reach bone but this wound does not. The killer took great care to cut this one just the way it is. There's some slight ecchymosis around this wound as well but hardly as much as the others."

Crossing her arms in discomfort, Ramirez thought aloud, "It's a perfectly straight and singular line. It had to have been the last cut, when she couldn't move anymore. There's no room for even a weak struggle."

"I agree. She was likely near death," Arkham added nodding at her. "Certainly unconscious."

Ramirez stared at the small slit parting the forehead, upright and aligned with the nose. It was the only direct wound that couldn't have caused death, and yet Ramirez found it unsettling in a way the four other wounds were not. It felt perverse; the killer found it significant, for some unknown reason.

From the angles of the four deep stab wounds, Gunt established a right-handed perpetrator. Each of the stabs had been underhanded sweeps rather than overhand stabs. Forceful, but not frenzied or hurried. As deep as they were, the wounds seemed to represent evidence of cold calculation, deliberate viciousness rather than uncontrolled passion. Cruelty rather than savagery.

The coroner offered them no opinion on the perpetrator's height because he did not believe the victim had stood upright when sustaining the wounds, citing the ligature marks he had mentioned before. The bruising lined her wrists and forearms as well as her ankles and shins.

"She was bound," he explained. "Probably with a clothes-line or something thinner. I extracted a number of fibers from the ligature impressions. Forensics has them." He then indicated the victim's face, tracing bruise lines from the corners of her mouth across both cheeks. "Gagged as well. There's a bruise from a knot on the nape of her neck, under the hair."

Ramirez glanced up at Allen, glad for any excuse to look away from the table. "But no rope or gag found with the body?"

Allen gazed at her for a moment, jaw flexing then relaxing. "Apparently removed by the killer. Or at least by whoever dumped the body. I assume they're the same person. The kids who found the body say they kept their distance. Never came close to touching the body. I believe them. They were scared shitless."

"She was bound in a way that prevented her from standing erect?" Arkham asked, his thick brow furrowed.

Gunt turned to him. "More than that. She was bound in a way that suggests suspension. Let me show you."

With careful precision, Gunt reopened the body through the chest and focused on its exposed rib cage, ignoring the obvious knife penetrations to indicate several other points between different ribs. "See here? And here?"

Allen and Arkham leaned in to peer more closely. Ramirez kept her distance, only leaning in the minimal amount she needed to see what was being indicated.

"Torn cartilage." Arkham murmured, his voice like a hum. Ramirez assumed the doctor must have had some medical education along with his psychological one. It certainly explained his calm demeanor.

"Separated in several places," Gunt added, "and stretched where it's not torn. The entire rib cage was subjected to tremendous stress, and apparently for prolonged duration. Combining this evidence with the ligature bruising, I'd say the subject's back was severely arched, arms and legs pulled back and bound together over the small of her spine."

Allen sounded disturbed as he stated, "She was hog-tied."

The coroner glanced at Allen as he continued with, "And hoisted up. Probably by the same line used to bind the forearms and shins, to hang suspended face down." Gunt's eyes were flat. "That brings me to my next point. When I performed the autopsy, I did _n't_ need to drain the body. That's because it was virtually empty, almost completely exsanguinated. The lack of blood in the body prevents me from confirming wither or not she was drugged and what with."

"She was hung up to bleed out." Allen murmured, "Like a hunter bleeds a deer."

Gunt shrugged. "Whether that was the _purpose_ of the suspension, I don't know, but that's what happened. The body _did_ bleed out while suspended."

Ramirez tried to banish the mental image even as she concentrated on what it might mean, screening horror to focus on fact. She clicked her tongue, adjusting her glasses so the thick rims blocked her view of the body. "That not only explains the angle of the wounds but also why all four penetrations were underhanded."

"Good point." Arkham said, sending her an approving glance. Ramirez didn't know wither to feel proud that he seemed impressed with her or offended that he hadn't expect the insight, which had allowed him to be impressed. Arkham continued, speaking to the whole room, "Even if she was suspended high enough for the killer to stand comfortably under her, overhand stabs would have been too awkward."

Using the extent of decomposition, Gunt estimated that the young woman had been dead for at least six days. Allen then stated she had be dead no more than nine days, given her employer had reported that she hadn't shown up for work since nine days before her body was discovered. According to Gunt, she could have been held captive for up to three days. Her empty stomach and bowels were not good signs.

When the autopsy finished, Ramirez felt like she had just glimpsed the work of a demon fresh out of hell. Quite possibly the devil himself.

 **\~/**

The forehead slit still haunted Ramirez as she exited the morgue. Allen and Arkham walked ahead of her. They made their way towards the stairs.

"Let's hope it's isolated," Allen sighed.

Arkham sounded grim, "We both know it's not."

Allen didn't respond right away, so Ramirez took the chance to question him. "How many missing persons reports match Simmons's description?"

Allen's jaw worked side to side before he answered. "Uh, when I checked morning, seven in the last five weeks matching the physical profile. Six left now. I brought in only one family, mother and stepfather, based on the photos. They confirmed our identification."

There was a long pause as they ascended the first flight of stairs. After a steadying breath Allen looked to the doctor, ignoring Ramirez entirely. "It was awful, the one part of this job I'll never handle well. Dealing with the survivors, trying to comfort them when there's nothing to give but the dead body of their loved one."

Ramirez could empathize with him. All cops try to hold it in. It's a requisite of the job but it could eat at you, if you let it. As the group reached the third level, Arkham spoke softly. "We have to assume it'll get worse. Maybe seven times worse."

Allen shook his head, as if that would banish away the mental image of that poor dead girl. "I just hope you're wrong, Doctor."

"Me too." Arkham's hand gripped Allen's shoulder and squeezed. "But this one feels especially evil. Sadistic."

"I hate to be the one to speculate this early, but I'm a profiler so I'll just go on ahead." Ramirez interjected sarcastically, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose and getting straight to the point, "Gunt is wrong. I think the killer _did_ stand comfortably under the victim."

The men both paused, perhaps caught off guard by her statement. They both turned to look at her. "Meaning?" Arkham asked as Allen commanded, "Go on."

Ramirez let eye her eyes shift downward from their powerful gazes. "I think he wanted to shower in her blood."

Arkham blinked, at a loss for words as his eyes appraised her solemn face. Allen found himself pinching the bridge of his nose, jaw flexing hard. Allen was the first to speak again. "I'll order a request for a search along the full stretch of road. Divers too, for the river."

Ramirez pursed her lips with a nod of her head, nothing left to say now that she was completely mentally and emotionally drained. Arkham placed his hand back on Allen's shoulder. "It's the most you can do at this point."

\~/

 **End Chapter Six  
Special Thanks to** **Doug Moench.**


	7. Shadows and Mask

**Chapter warning: Internalized misogyny, sexual harassment, and non-graphic mentions of sex.**

 **ECCHYMOSIS** **  
CHAPTER SEVEN**

 **Uptown Island, The Bowery, Sionis Industries**

Sionis Industries was half skyscraper, half factory. The public view a pristine building made up of office windows, it was something straight out of Metropolis. The factory, out of sight by anyone not sailing on Gotham Harbor, was dirty and built with dark concrete and old brick. Smoke and waste dumped out of the building in ugly plumes.

Sionis's office, on the one hundred and eighth floor, was obnoxious and lavish. Through the large window acting as a wall, she could see across town to the waters of the Gotham River on the other side of Uptown Island. Red X whistled. Hearing noise outside the office, she assumed that she wouldn't be alone much longer. She adjusted her mask over her face and pulled hood of her jacket closer to her. Then she turned towards the large double doors to the office.

One of the doors opened and in strolled Roman Sionis himself, clad in what one might describe as a strange white suit. The suit itself didn't seem formal to her but the only other time she had seen a white suit was in pictures of her mom's high school prom, dated way back in the 80s. The topmost buttons of Sionis's collar shirt remained unbuttoned. He did not wear a tie.

His glare hardened his handsome middle-aged face into something sinister. He paused when he saw a woman standing before his desk, her frame stiff and her fidgeting hands in her jacket pockets.

"Who the hell are you?" Sionis demanded; his voice was gruff and deep. Shoving from the group of men still outside the office door, in stormed his right hand. The woman's name was Xiùyīng Li and she was Sionis's closest associate. Red X didn't pay attention to what Li began to rant about in a heavily accented voice.

"False Facers." Red X stated, her voice loud enough to overshadow the annoying complaints of the other woman.

Silence followed.

Li paused for a moment, confusion wrinkled her beautiful Chinese features, before she closed and locked the door. Sionis relaxed his posture.

"I wasn't expecting a woman." Sionis's tone was casual but still Red X didn't relax. Sionis approached her with leering eyes. His gate was leisurely, a swaying stroll, eyes examining her body. "I _was_ expecting a more elaborate costume, though. Gotta say, I'm disappointed."

Lost in her thoughts, she forgot to respond to him and didn't realize it until he spoke again. Sionis stood behind her unmoving figure, smaller than his broad frame. "So, you're the famous Red X…"

"I wouldn't call myself famous," Red X replied, calm despite her unease. She had been observing him for months, making sure she knew who she was trying to get into business with. She'd rehearsed this in the mirror a great many times.

"I would," he stated, as if he were talking to someone stupid. Li followed his every move, only steps behind him. Her eyes bounced between her boss and the mercenary. "My men just won't shut up about you. You've earned me a lot of money down at The Pits."

For a moment Red X said nothing. She hated doing this in daylight hours just as she hated doing business outside of her full armor—the Kevlar was too bulk for daylight hours—and thusly she felt uncomfortable and vulnerable. Deciding to reply, Red X deflected with a joke. "You must be betting against your own men."

With a short laugh, Sionis lowered himself into his soft office chair as Li came to stand close to him. Li's silky hair was pulled into a tight bun and her pant suit was expensive and fashionable. Red X could only assume that the woman was a body guard of some sort. Li was slight and unimposing in her physical presence but something about the calm look in her dark eyes made her seem dangerous. Li's glared rested on Red X and the masked woman felt discomforted by it.

Red X pushed forward, "When do I get paid for last night?"

"Slow down, sweetheart." Sionis chuckled at her, as if she we're a child overstepping her boundaries. His eyes wandered up the athletic pants that hugged her long muscled legs before he spoke again, "I have a new task for you."

Red X had to stop herself from cringing away from his lingering gaze. Men were such sexual creatures and she felt nothing but disgust at the thought of having sex with him. He didn't have the right parts for her particular sexual proclivity. Though that had not stopped her from being with men in the past, she couldn't help but remember.

Clenching her jaw, Red X dictated, "Not until you pay me. I don't work for you, Sionis. I did you a favor and I demand to be paid for it."

Shamefully, Red X stiffens when Sionis stands from his chair. He approaches her without looking away from her face and her gaze drifts down toward his nose, anywhere but his hard glare.

"You might want to start thinking before you speak to me, bitch." He warned as he stood in front of her, stepping on the toes of her boots. "Because you _do_ work for me," Sionis hissed as he leaned close to her. "And I'll pay you whenever I want." He paused; grabbing her chin between his pointer finger and thumb with a bruising grip, he forced her to look at him as his voice rose to a growl. "And you'll thank me for it. Then you'll shut your _fucking_ mouth."

They stood there a moment, staring at each other. Red X was afraid but did her best to harden her eyes, trying to send a telepathic message for him to fuck off. Maybe he got the message, she thought when his grip tightened, shifting her mask slightly down over her eyes.

"Mr. Sionis?" came a nasal voice from his work phone on his desk. Sionis's gaze shifted to the phone before his fingers released her face. Red X's head jerked a bit, trying to regain balance. Sionis turned away from her, walking toward the large desk.

Red X readjusted her mask, uncovering her eyes. She felt both relieved and—for some weird reason—annoyed at the interruption of the phone call. Sionis pressed a finger hard on the call button.

"What?" was his vicious reply.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Sionis," the voice said before it lowered a bit, as if sharing a warning, "but a Mr. Crow is here to see you."

Red X nearly snorted. Who the fuck had a name like 'Mr. Crow'? Honestly. Aliases were getting lazier by the minute.

Sionis turned back to her, leaning on his desk.

"Tell him to wait," Sionis locked eyes with Red X as he spoke; he looked disappointed. She didn't want to know what he was thinking. "Li," Sionis said to his assistant, without taking his glare off of Red X, "transfer three grand into Red X's account."

The beautiful Mrs. Li began typing away on the expensive computer sitting on the desk. "Right away, sir." Her voice was low and perfunctory.

Sionis's sharp gaze held Red X in place as he spoke to her again, "So I recently bought out Falcone's shipyard in Tricorner and, with it, some of his overseas business."

She was already aware of this. Her benefactor had been keeping close tabs on Sionis's expenses, both legal and not. Red X said nothing, keeping her eyes on his as she nodded. Red X was on edge and she knew he noticed.

Sionis looked pleased with himself, smiling coyly. "I'm expecting a shipment from Asia, or where ever, to come in tomorrow night. I need one specific bag to move from the docks to the Narrows. Somewhere around Robinson Park; Li will give you the specifics. Get it done right and there's ten grand in it for you."

Red X can't help twisting her mouth into an unseen smirk behind her mask. "Not a problem."

\~/

 **End Chapter Seven  
Special thanks to Judd Winick.**


	8. Christmas with The Joker

**Chapter warning: Mild ableist language.**

 **ECCHYMOSIS  
CHAPTER EIGHT**

 **Amusement Mile, The Bluffs, abandoned carnival**

"And where'd you get all this money again?" Carver asked the homeless man before him suspiciously. Carver had never bothered to learn the man's name. They'd met in the ally by Carver's apartment a few years back and since then, the degenerate just wouldn't leave him alone.

"Come on, whodi," Scruffy insisted, his Louisiana accent relentless. "I've got the money now! I got the money!"

Glancing at his watch, Carver knew he had to get this guy out of there soon, he had another customer to attend to. Carver's accent contrasted sharply against the other man's; Carver spoke with a perfect Jersey accent: nasal and flat. "All right, all right."

They made the exchange and the homeless man thanked Carver profusely. As he was leaving, Scruffy grinned, "Merry Christmas, Carver."

"The fuck?" Carver wondered with a scrunched brow and a dumb expression as he stared after the derelict. It was the middle of God-damn March. Carver scoffed and murmured, "Yeah, Merry Christmas, you crazy fuck."

Carver stood alone in a long dead carnival at the bluffs of the Amusement Mile. Lost in thought, his eyes glanced over the polluted harbor and the filthy cityscape of uptown Gotham. He thought of his brother, Matches. They'd moved, together, to Gotham City several years ago with dreams of amassing a large fortune. Carver had been the fool to buy the carnival, hoping to orchestrate a good insurance racket but never was able to attain insurance for the dilapidated park. Matches had been smug about the whole affair, not having approved of the venture in the first place.

Seeing a figure take shape to his right, Carver turned to meet his guest. "Ah! There you are," he greeted the eccentric visitor. Carver was excited to finally sell this old place; he'd never been able to find anyone willing to take the old rusted contraptions off his hands. It wasn't worth the cost to him anymore and it certainly wasn't worth his brother's ridicule. "Have you had a chance to inspect the property?"

The visitor clicked his tongue and turned to gesture around the park in exaggeration. "Well, uh, it's _ugly_. The rides are broken beyond repair and could _easily_ _maim_ or, uh, _kill_ innocen _t_ _children,_ " the man remarked in distaste, clicking his tongue against his teeth.

Carver could have spit nails. Not really sure what to say, he grimaced, "Oh… So you don't like it?"

Mr. Jack White's head leaned back in a cackle. "Don't like it? I _love_ it."

Carver couldn't see the color of White's slicked back hair beneath the wide brim hat. White's face was mostly obscured by a white medical mask; what was visible of his nose looked like it might have been broken one time to many. White's complexion was a sickly pale that starkly contrasted his ugly bloodshot eyes. The strange Mr. White—hunched and giggling—led the way through the carnival with absolute delight. Carver followed after, in a daze.

"You…?" Carver released his baited breath with a wash of relief. "You really want to buy it? And the price I mentioned isn't too steep…?"

Slapping a hand down on Carver's shoulder and squeezing tight, Mr. White assured, "Oh no, my man! You see, the way _I_ look at it, I'm making a _killing_." The man giggled. It was when White noticed a poster of the Fat Lady that he trailed off and added in a mutter, "…and anyway, money isn't exactly a problem."

Carver was in a state of pure euphoria. He'd really overcharged the sucker. Mr. White was obviously a real fuckin' weirdo, but he was real _rich_ fuckin' weirdo and Carver was just fine with that. Carver Malone was a simple man to get along with, if you had enough money that is.

Reaching the front of the park, Carver, in his giddy mindset, climbed onto a rocking pink elephant. "Y'know, I'm positive you won't regret this purchase. The place isn't that dilapidated. Some of these rides are pretty sturdy. Really this could be one hell of a carnival—"

"Oh, _I know_ ," White interrupted patronizingly, "You've, uh, completely _sold_ me on this place. Let's _shake_ on i _t_."

The high was short lived as Mr. White snatched up Carver's hand and, catching a glint of silver in White's hand, Carver felt the needle pierce his palm with a pinch. Carver's hand clenched inward and when he tried to cry out, he found his mouth unresponsive. He felt like he was shriveling like a raisin beneath his skin, which pulled tight over his bones.

"Naturally, I won't be _paying_ you anything. My colleagues, uh, _persuaded_ your partner, into signing the necessary documents _over_ an hour ago. The carnival's _already mine_." Mr. White giggled at the man, whose name he had never bothered to learn. He waved his hand to reveal the poisoned needle attached to his joy buzzer. White haphazardly grabbed the buzzer's strap and threw it off. He wouldn't want to go around accidently poisoning everyone he shook hands with, would he?

"You know, when you see the… _improvements_ I have planned for this place, _you'll be… uh, speechless_. And that's a _lifetime_ guarantee." After he snorted in delight, White sighed at the lack of response. "Well, Carver, I gotta dash. I need to, uh, _pick_ _up_ my _main_ _attraction_."

White pulled up the lapels of his coat to cover his face. "Feel free to stick around."

The man's wiry figure faded into the distance.

Carver hadn't moved. His form sat ridged atop the slightly rocking pink elephant, which groaned against the rusted spring. Carver's teeth cracked under the pressure of his clenched jaw. A trickle of blood appeared from behind his teeth and dripped over his lower lip. His teeth were tucked into a set of chapped lips that pulled back towards his ears, stretching his smile. His eyelids pealed open so wide the eyeballs could have dropped right out of the sockets. Every age line that could have ever been stretched across his features and sweat pooled inside them.

Carver Malone was a simple man to get along with. Simply because he was dead.

 **\~/**

 **End Chapter Eight** **  
 **Special thanks to Alan Moore and Brian Bolland.****


	9. Shadow of the Bat

**ECCHYMOSIS  
CHAPTER NINE**

 **Downtown Island, Old Gotham, Gotham City Police Department**

About an hour after the autopsy, Doctor Arkham had left—needing to attend to his hospital, he'd said. Later, Ramirez learned that one of the six missing women was alive and well. She had simply fled a troubled marriage, calling her husband from Oregon four days later. The husband hadn't bothered to cancel the missing persons report.

One woman dead, one alive, leaving five still missing.

Allen persisted throughout the day, releasing APBs and contacting relatives of the missing, hoping that Arkham was wrong: that the murder was a single isolated event. Hoping that none of the others were dead, that all five had simply run away to new lives elsewhere.

Ramirez thought his hopes were wishful thinking.

Allen told her to shove her opinions up her ass.

They were getting along great.

\~/

Approaching late day, Allen was visibly shaken. The search had begun at noon, a team of civilian volunteers and off duty cops searching along the palisades road while a team of divers searched the river. The only reason he'd been allowed the man power of the divers was because Gordon's task force didn't need them—no one was looking underwater for signs of The Joker, whose capture took priority over all else.

The afternoon's search had been hideously successful, with four more bodies recovered from the same half-mile stretch of brush below the palisades road and above the river but none from the water itself. And with four of the five missing women now found, Allen's hopes were crushed to one: a possible runaway who failed to contact home—either that or another body still awaited discovery, perhaps washed further downriver.

Ramirez didn't bother insulting him with an 'I told you so,' but Allen felt like she had all the same.

"Gunt's working on the third autopsy now," Allen informed Ramirez, having just walked back up the stairs, "but he's certain at least the first two were killed by the same butcher knife as Lauren Simmons."

"We don't need Gunt to tell us it's the same guy. The tight grouping of disposed bodies is enough." Ramirez responded. She found it was much easier to think about corpses when she wasn't in the presence of one. "What did he say about M.O.?"

"More than consistent. It's identical." Allen plopped down behind his desk, across the aisle from Ramirez.

She blinked, "Literally identical?"

Allen nodded, clenching and unclenching his jaw. "Bound and suspended in exactly the same way. Roughly the same physical type, naked, drained of blood. Needle puncture in the neck. Evidence of recreational drug use. She was deeply stabbed with underhand thrusts, exactly four times."

Removing her glasses to rub her strained eyes, Ramirez asked "What about the fifth wound?"

Allen nodded grimly, "Same shallow cut to the forehead, straight up and down. The last two have the same mark. Don't need an autopsy to see them. It's clearly his calling card."

Ramirez pressed her lips in a thin line, replacing her glasses on her face. "It's more than that."

"Yeah, profiler," he mocked with a roll of his eyes. "Like what?"

"I don't know," she admitted. It was only the small pinch in her gut that told her the wound was significant. "It's part of his ritual. Something about making that mark is significant to him, probably more significant than the stab wounds or even the blood."

"No shit. You're a real Sherlock Holmes, Ramirez," Allen remarked sarcastically. Leaning back in his chair behind his desk, he muttered offhand, "Educated fortune telling and statistical smoke and mirrors. That's all you do, isn't it?"

Taken aback, she leaned away from him in her own chair, staring across the aisle at him from her temporary desk—actually just a foldable table. Ramirez knew that Allen knew the people working in the MCU were either decorated detectives or experienced criminal profilers. Ramirez couldn't tell if Allen was just trying to piss her off or he really felt that way about criminal psychology. Nonetheless, she felt personally offended at his jabs. There weren't enough words to describe how much she wanted to hit him with a baseball bat.

Oblivious to her thoughts, Allen stated that he wanted to use the men he had at their disposal to stake out the palisades road, plainclothes officers strung along the ridge to maintain constant surveillance on the road below.

"Don't stake out the palisades," Ramirez scoffed rudely, wanting to make him feel stupid.

Allen, whose face normally rested in irritation, seemed genuine in his annoyance with her—borderline hostile. "And why the hell not?"

Defensive, Ramirez retorted, "It's a waste of your man power and resources and it's a waste of everyone's time."

"That bastard's been dumping bodies there for weeks. I'm willing to bet he'll do it again. It's basic law enforcement, Ramirez." He sneered matter-of-fact.

Ramirez ground her teeth in irritation. She wasn't a rookie and—as he looked down his nose at her and perpetuated whatever feud he was trying to start with her—Ramirez felt the desire to prove him wrong about her field. "Well if you'd studied even the smallest bit of criminal psychology, you'd know that an intelligent psychopath like this one will be watching the news, reading online articles, anything that lets him follow the investigation."

"Is there a point here," Allen patronized. She knew _he_ knew exactly what she meant—playing stupid just because he didn't want to be wrong—and that only irked her further.

"The discovery of the first body already hit the news this morning. Even if there's another body to dump, the palisades is the last place it'll happen now and you know it. He's not stupid enough to risk going back into the area, so don't be stupid enough to place all of your men there." she insisted, rudely. For emphasis, Ramirez repeated her earlier statement, " _It's a waste of your resources and it's a waste of everyone's time._ "

He scoffed at her and threw himself further back in his chair, nearly tipping it over—she wished he would. They fell into angry silence; Ramirez felt childish in her outburst but despite that small shame, she wasn't going to apologize.

Ramirez stressed, urging him to understand. "Instead, I recommend you release a statement to the press. Tell them we have Simmons's boyfriend in custody as a prime suspect and have some of your men answering the tip line. If he thinks someone else is getting credit for his work, he might reach out."

"Don't be stupid. The press isn't focused on us. Not while Joker's loose," Allen muttered bitterly, working his jaw and grinding his teeth. "It's the only reason no reporters showed up to the search."

Pursing her lips, she leaned forward in her seat, "Find someone, anyone, who will listen. Try the radio; Jack Ryder maybe. Joker's going to be old news quick. They'll need something else to talk about soon enough."

Allen's jaw flexed hard and they sat in silence. Ramirez really started feeling uncomfortable after he didn't speak for several minutes. Changing topic to avoid any more awkward silences, she adjusted her glasses and took three heavy breaths before speaking. "…Is there anything else from Gunt?"

His simmering anger ebbed slightly, the wrinkles of his face becoming more defined. He answered in a clipped tone. "The bodies are in various stages of decomp. Gunt estimates the oldest one is about a month old: probably the first woman reported missing. He says they were kept alive in captivity something like two to four days."

She nodded. Allen raised an eyebrow in challenge, "You find anything?"

Still wanting to be irritated at him, Ramirez thought about being difficult with her answers just to piss him off. Only the thought of the missing and dead women allowed her to fake civility for the sake of efficiency. "Forensics reported plenty of evidence but it's nothing compared to what's already been collected."

"These aren't his firsts." It was exactly what Allen feared. Ramirez shook her head, directing him to her computer.

After the discovery of the third body around mid-afternoon, Ramirez had decided to check the FBI's Violent Criminal Apprehension Program. There were no significant matches in the ViCAP database at first. Nothing about the mysterious and disturbing forehead wound. Just when she was about to give up and accept that this was a brand new killer, she found a match while digging through knife related murders. Then another, and another.

The number of cases and locations seemed possible but also completely improbable, Allen said as much, but Ramirez insisted that it was the best lead they had. The two spent the sunset separately searching through the stack of possible matches until Allen got a call from a Virginia area code.

Turns out it was an analyst with the FBI's Investigations and Operations Support.

\~/

"You spoke directly to the FBI?" Came the surprised voice of Arkham from the other end of the line.

"Allen did, yes," Ramirez informed. Said detective was busy trying to get into a meeting with Commissioner Gordon but was finding it damn-near impossible.

"They're calling him 'the Butcher.'" She told the doctor, "They sent us all their casefiles, an overall summary of the previous murders, and a perpetrator profile worked up by their Behavioral Analysis Unit. They sent it all to us just ten minutes ago. We're printing the files now."

There was a long pause before Arkham spoke again, "How many other murders are there?"

Ramirez almost sighed into the phone. "It's big," she said, trying to brace him. "More than Bundy, even more than the Green River Killer."

"Tell me," Arkham said, voice low.

Ramirez lowered her head, not wanting to look at any of the Homicide detectives walking past her. "Looks like sixty-seven in four other cities, which means there's more. At least eight more victims are still missing from those four areas."

A sharp exhale of breath, followed by a breathy curse was his only response. Ramirez frowned, "Doctor? Doctor Arkham, are you alright?"

She could hear him breathing. He finally responded with a, " _Christ_ … The most prolific serial killer in the nation and he moves to Gotham. It's unfortunately a very smart move."

Finding a specific killer in Gotham City was like finding a specific piece of hay in a giant hay stack. The Butcher's move to Gotham was probably the smartest thing he ever did to hide himself.

Ramirez's lips pulled into a thin line before she spoke. "It's practically useless but I figure the Butcher moved to Gotham anywhere from a year to five weeks ago."

"Why that large of a gap?"

She huffed, "The last _known_ murder in the previous city, Miami, occurred a little over a year ago. I doubt he hasn't killed in the meantime but I don't have any evidence to suggest otherwise."

Catching on, the doctor finished, "And the first Gotham victim was reported missing five weeks ago."

"Right." She paused, thinking about exactly how to phrase her words. "Listen, Doctor Arkham. The FBI consultant arrives tomorrow morning from Quantico," Ramirez stated, wondering exactly how many more consultants were going to be working the damn case. "I've got a lot of work to do, so I'll be taking copies of the files home tonight. Would you mind helping me create a working profile? I could use the second perspective."

It was perhaps a bit forward to ask Arkham but she hopped he could help provide a psychological profile or at the very least, help her develop one. Obviously Allen wouldn't be supportive of such endeavors.

"I don't mind at all, Detective. Where should we meet?"

\~/

 **End Chapter Nine  
Special thanks to Doug Moench.**


	10. Dick Pic

**ECCHYMOSIS  
CHAPTER TEN**

 **Downtown Island, Tricourner Docks, The Pits**

Ducking a left hook Red X dove into a roll and, planting a gloved hand firmly into the surrounding chicken wire fence, threw out a powerful kick at the legs of Qing Lu: one of Penguin's newest recruits. The toe of her shoes struck a tendon in the back of Lu's right knee: precisely focusing the force of impact on the small target. With a yelp, Lu's right leg collapsed under him and he felt to one knee. Quickly regaining her balance, Red X righted herself and snatched either side of her opponent's head; she yanked it back as her knee jerked upwards. The knee connected high on the back of Lu's neck, where his spine connected with his skull. He didn't make any noise after that.

The Penguin recruit fell backwards, forcing Red X to awkwardly stumble out of his way. The second Lu's body had struck the floor, Red X continued her assault; she wanted to be sure the jackass didn't get back up. Picking up her foot, Red X stomped down hard onto Lu's masked face in the general area of the nose and left cheekbone. Stumbling as her foot slipped off of the man's face, Red X took a sloppy step back and stomped again. Then she did it once more with all the force she could give at that angle, just for good measure.

When Red X stepped back haggard, sweaty, and bloodied, the screaming of the surrounding audience grew louder. She could make out a few threats and swearing. Others were roaring in victory, having won their gamble. While she panted, attempting to regain her breath, Red X readjusted her mask – which had shifted during her fight. After a brief look around, Red X walked to the make-shift door of the chicken wire cage. "Let me out," she called, trying to shout over the crowd. A scrawny twitchy man complied and unlocked the padlock.

Stepping down from the arena, Red X had to push her way through the crowd as they headed for either the exit or to the bookies. Before she could take more than four steps a hand clapped down on her shoulder. When Red X turned, she was unsurprised to see the hand belonged to Alberto Falcone. He owed her a couple grand for the fight. "Follow me." Red X said, shrugging his hand off. As she walked on, Red X peaked to make sure he was following. He was.

Shoving past one of the Black Mask's thugs, Red X pushed open the heavy steel door which lead to a smaller back room that had likely been an office space when the building had been in legal use. Now, it was where fighters had to store their affects. It was one of the only rules of the pits: no weapons. Chicken wire blocked of the area above a roughly made counter which stretched across the length of the room. In the center, a square porthole was cut out of the wire large enough for one person to climb through. Behind the porthole was a man, who stood before lines of automatic weapons, pistols, knives. He asked her if she wanted her effects back. Red X didn't respond beyond a sharp nod.

"So," came the impatient tone of Alberto Falcone. He was approaching forty but had the appearance and cadence of someone a decade younger. He had a tall lanky body, like he hadn't grown since his teen years. Alberto's hair was greased back and his large nose curved downward like the beak of his family's name-sake. "I hear you're working for Black Mask now?"

Red X's eyes traversed up toward the crown of her head behind closed eyelids before rolling back down to look ahead, avoiding the mob prince's gaze. Not wanting to anger him and deal with the consequences, she simply replied, "Yeah, I guess."

His hazy eyes scrolled over her figure: clad in all black. She had nice tits but Alberto took note of her toned muscle and narrow hips––unfortunate traits in his opinion. The Red X's form was decidedly too masculine for his tastes. "Well," he said finally, "in that case, you owe me ten percent."

Red X's head snapped towards the man, glaring through her mask. She argued in as controlled of a tone and voice as she could manage, "Everyone else pays 5."

His smirk revealed overly whitened teeth, "Not Black Mask's guys. You're lucky I'm letting you keep anything at all. If I were my father, you'd already be dead."

Her skepticism was obvious under her mask. Alberto Falcone was hardly the most intimidating person and she was confident that she could take him, easy. But, she reasoned, it would be such a hassle to deal with the consequences of that course of action. "Take five percent and I'll do the Carron hit for free. Ten isn't worth the trouble."

The night before, Alberto's father––Carmine Falcone––had prompted her to dispose of a security guard at Arkham Asylum, named Richard Carron. Carron refused to accept a bribe from Falcone, who for all intents and purposes controlled the asylum. Falcone didn't legally own Arkham but he was paying off more than half the staff.

Initially, Red X had refused the offer, telling Falcone that the price wasn't high enough––which was true. Red X only killed the corrupt, only killed the bad guys, and any price on an innocent's head wasn't high enough. But if she could convince Carron to leave town––fake his death––then the five percent of her winnings would be worth the trouble.

Alberto rose an eyebrow, condescending. "Actually, I've got another guy taking care of that as we speak. Real good too." Alberto's tone was starting to grate on her nerves. "So it's still ten percent."

Red X's jaw worked in her mouth. Beyond the guilt she felt at the death of an innocent she might have otherwise saved, she felt a large amount of irritation that Falcone had other men to do a job if she didn't want it. It made logical sense but the fact that she wasn't their only option in this line of work was irritating.

As far as she knew, there was no other mercenary in the city with her particular skill set, which is most likely why she was usually asked first to these sorts of jobs. She had a reputation as an expert thief back before her Red X days. Her transition from thief to hired killer had been so seamless it was almost elegant. In just over a month, she was working with some of the biggest names in Gotham's underground.

She'd worked damned hard for that but had never fully considered there would be others to replace her. Gritting her teeth in annoyance, Red X huffed, "I'll give you eight percent but I want information in return."

"Nine."

Red X sneered. " _Eight._ "

A shit-eating grin spread across Alberto's face as he looked her dead in the face. "Alright. What information?"

"I want to talk to someone in the GCPD. Internal Affairs, if you can manage," She posed her demand as a challenge.

A beat of silence. Alberto raised his eyebrow, "Why?"

The hard roll of her eyes left her with the beginnings of a migraine. "I need information for another job." _Obviously._

"For Black Mask?" He inquired. Red X couldn't help but be amused when she realized that he was nosey _and_ had a large nose. He was like a Saturday morning cartoon.

"No," she admitted before falling into a lie. "And before you ask: I don't know who the client is so I couldn't tell you even if I knew."

"That's vague." He tisked. Clicking his tongue at her, Alberto smirked. "Yeah, alright. I'll get you in touch with Corrigan. He's just a cop but I think you'll find he knows a lot for a guy in his position. You know what I mean? I'll tell him I owe you _one_ favor. Just the one. Deal?"

"Yeah. Deal." She agreed, happy to accept the money she _could_ get. After they counted the money, Alberto watched her as she stuck the envelope of cash in her pant leg.

After sending her a text with the contact information he owed her, Alberto left. The obnoxious sounds of thugs grew louder as the door opened and then they were muffled again when it closed. After a minute of silence the man behind the chicken wire gathered and brought her things, laying them in a pile. Wrapped in her armored jacket were her supplies: cell phone, kneepads, Berretta 92FS, and twin hunting knives.

"That everything?" asked the man as she put on her jacket. Red X glanced at him but didn't answer as she gathered her things back into their holsters. When her phone buzzed, Red X casually pulled up the touch screen to her face before pausing in surprise. She cursed, nearly impressed, ignoring the questioning look from the man behind the porthole. When she examined the picture more closely, disgust churned her stomach. An unknown number had sent her a picture:

A black male in his mid-forties/early-fifties hung upside down by a thick cable strung to his ankle. He was nude, covered in lacerations of varying depth. His other leg hung limply to the side and his neck sported a rather messy Columbian necktie, as if he'd been alive and struggled. Beneath him was a substantial dark puddle. He'd died of blood loss. Slowly.

The picture was accompanied by a short message:

 _This used to be Dick Carron. Can you do better?_

\~/

 **End Chapter Ten**


	11. The Man Who Laughs

**ECCHYMOSIS  
CHAPTER ELEVEN**

 **Downtown Island, Tricourner, Home of Jim Gordon**

"I hate this. Whenever we jail him, I think 'Please God, keep him there.' Then he escapes and we all sit round hoping he isn't doing anything _too_ awful this time." Gordon gazed down at the newspaper. _The Gotham Examiner_ stated in big bold letters across the front page, Vicki Vale's exclusive, 'Arkham Security Uproar! Maniac Escapes Again!'

"I _hate_ it, Barbara." He said, having no clue how to make her understand exactly how true that was. As she walked in from the kitchen, he set to work cutting out the picture and headline for his scrapbook: a coping tool his therapist had recommended. Gordon wouldn't say the scrapbook was helping him cope with anything, but it was busy work and allowed him to stop thinking so much—so he kept with it.

His wife, Barbara—all confidence and strength he loved her for—strutted into the living room. "Jim, just _once_ ," Barbara complained as she carried in a try holding two steaming mugs. "Could you leave your work at the office and relax? I made you cocoa."

Looking back to his task, Gordon smiled. "Thank you. I'll drink it when I've pasted this latest clipping in."

She laid the tray on the glass table with a small tinkling of metal on glass. "You know," she regarded him with interest, "I found that scrapbook you said was missing. It was behind the wardrobe."

Barbara picked up her own mug of cocoa and walked to the bookcase, leaning against it. "Someday you ought to let me work out a proper filing system, like we used at the library."

Gordon only hummed, biting his tongue as he concentrated on adding the glue to the back of the thin paper. Barbara reached her hand out as if she could stop his movements telepathically. "Jim, ugh. Look you used too much paste! It's all squidging under the edges of the clipping. You're going to get it on your pants—"

He laughed, "Barbara, you're fussier than my mother—Was that the door?"

Three sharp knocks followed the previous two. Barbara flew towards the door. "Yeah. It'll be Colleen from across the street. She'll be dropping off the kids from after-school." Turning back, she 'tisk'ed at him, "C'mon, Jim… Company! Put your scrapbooks away."

He was going to respond, before he spotted the first article in the Joker scrapbook. Gordon pondered aloud, "Look at this one. Back when he was just robbing mob banks. Was it really only last year? I feel like decades have gone by."

Her tone light, Barbara grinned back at him. "Well, I remember you describing the white face and the green hair. Scared the _hell_ out of the kids."

Feeling a small bit of guilt, Gordon muttered, "I thought they'd be interested."

Her hand closed around the door knob. Barbara laughed, their fear only a memory. "Yeah, well they had some pretty interesting _nightmares_." She opened the door and the forgotten mug of cocoa fell from her hand, smashing and scattering across the entrance way.

Speak of the devil, Barbara thought.

 _BANG!_

She saw the blood, felt herself fall through the air before she registered the pain. Her body crashed into the coffee table—atop her husband's sketchbooks. Glass shattered and her back hit the unkind ground. Just as she felt the pain of glass piercing her back and arms, Barbara felt the overwhelming pain of the bullet—buried in her lower stomach.

Diving to her side, Gordon stared in horror. "Barb—?"

His gaze drifted upwards, the earth moving too fast for his to process. Before him— _at his front door_ —was The Joker, dressed in a touristy Hawaiian button up and khaki shorts. A large brim of a sunhat blocked most of his face from view, but Gordon knew him by the ugly scars of his bloody red Cheshire grin and the green curls of greasy hair.

There was a camera around The Joker's neck and a gun in his hand.

"Don't worry, com _missioner_ ," the maniac implored, "It's a… common complain _t_ among librarians. You see, she thinks she's a, uh, _coffee table_ edition."

Gordon roared, "You son of a bitch!" Practically leaping from his position, he charged the Joker—only just noticing the scissors he still held in his hands. Two men—Joker's thugs—rushed back at him. It was a short fight: Gordon took a swift punch to the gut and, winded, went down.

"Can't say much for the book's _condition_ ," The Joker continued as if he hadn't even noticed Gordon's outburst. "I mean, there's a _hole_ in it."

Gordon was enraged. "I'll kill you!" He lunged again. Another hard knock to the face sent Gordon tumbling backwards.

The Joker laughed, "You want my opinion? She won't be walking off the shelves in, uh, tha _t_ state of repair. In fact the idea of her walking _anywhere_ seems… unlikely. But then, that's the problem with _soft backs_.

"You know, these book club meetings are so _dry_ ," he lamented, walking over to the drink cabinet. Then he spoke to his hired help. "When you've, uh, finished with the old man, you know where to take him—And, uh, be careful. After all, he _is_ topping the bill."

Joker laughed again, sipping something amber out of his glass. He remained standing in the living room as his hired hands hefted Gordon up, between the two of them, and carried the unconscious body outside.

Barbara watched Gordon be carried away through teary eyes, trying to quiet her sobs. The pain was unbearable; incomparable to anything she'd ever experienced. When the Joker turned to her, the scars on his face ripped back in a gleeful smile and Barbara couldn't help the ugly sob that wrecked her vocal cords. "Wuh…" She struggled. "Wuh-why are you," she stuttered another sob, "d-doing th-is?"

The Joker's eyes widened, crazing his expression. He bent over her, reaching for her shirt. "To prove a point… Here's to a _night on the town_."

His laughter rung in her ears.

 **\~/**

 **End Chapter Eleven  
Special Thanks to Brian Boland and Alan Moore.**


	12. Harlequin Therapy

**ECCHYMOSIS  
CHAPTER TWELVE**

 **Arkham Island, Arkham Asylum, Intensive Treatment Building**

The ground squished under The Batman's heavy armored boots as he snuck towards the back of the building—larger than even the Wayne mansion, Batman noticed, less opulent than his home but more so than the rest of the island's buildings. Obviously renovated, the structure looked new, though it had to be one of the oldest of all the island's buildings. As he made his way around the building, he noticed that the ground sloped more and more downward the further away he went from the entrance, sections of the basement peaking up from the underground. The building was uncomfortably close to a cliff: the edge of the island.

Keeping close to the mismatched brick and safely away from the cliff, Batman recalled the layout of the building. According to the map he had studied earlier that day, the warden's office should have been just above him then. Looking up, the Batman could see the ledge of a high-up window: his target, which sat on the building's main floor. Reaching to his utility belt, he retrieved his grappling hook and took aim. With minimal recoil, his aim was near perfect—latching onto the ledge of the office. Batman engaged his shoulder, preparing for the lift. The line pulled tight and yanked him up to the window sill.

Balancing himself on the small ledge, Batman peered into the dirty office—noticing an intricate spider web in the corner of the window. The office was dark but looking to the space beneath the door, he could see the light from the lobby where no doubt the receptionist or—more likely as the warden himself was gone—a guard sat.

Batman found himself somewhat glad the warden was absent. People had a tendency to lie or leave out information—purposefully or not—and he didn't have the time to deal with an interrogation. The paperwork on Jeremiah Arkham's computer would hopefully suffice in Batman's search for whoever let had let the Joker out.

Jimmying the latch of the window was easy, and he eased himself into the large office—careful not to disturb the spider in the window. Jeremiah Arkham's office was immaculate. Two leather library chairs sat opposite the large oak desk, atop which sat a desktop computer. To Batman's right, the office had large bookcases—filled with varying medical volumes, some of which looked well worn while others so well preserved that he might think they'd never been touched. Across the walls were art pieces, most of which he didn't recognize.

If Batman remembered correctly, Jeremiah Arkham had taken over the asylum roughly two months ago; coinciding with the official re-opening of Arkham Asylum—over a year after the destruction cause by the attack on Gotham, courtesy of The Scarecrow and Ra's al Ghul's League of Shadows.

Jeremiah's take over had been a huge story on GCN. Being the last living Arkham family member, he alone had rights to the asylum despite the fact that he had left Gotham behind several decades ago. When his uncle—Amadeus—died, Jeremiah came back home to Gotham from his teaching position at Florida State University, preventing the asylum from falling into the hands of the chief of staff, one Doctor Hugo Strange.

Not bothering to sit down, Batman stood in front of the tall leather chair that the warden himself sat in and powered up the computer. Once the computer was on, breaking into it was a breeze for Batman. To get passed the login screen, he plugged in a small USB that he pulled from his utility belt. Arkham was exceedingly well organized, much to Batman's appreciation. He found The Joker's file with little problem.

 _Name Unknown. 04479._

Inside, the file had numerous documents: basic admission information, interview tapes, and typed notes. Batman opened a document dated two months previous, labeled _Resident Observation- Quinzel #1_. It read:

 _Interview led by resident, Doctor Harleen Quinzel. Chief of Staff, Doctor Huge Strange, present for observation and supervision._

 _Quinzel: [Speaking into a personal recording device.] Patient interview one._

 _Joker: So, I'm your first? Well you know what they say. 'You never forget your first time.' I'll try to make it memorable for you._

 _Quinzel: Believe me, you already have._

 _Strange: Please, state your name for the record._

 _Joker: I'd rather tattoo it on your forehead. With a dirty needle dipped in acid._

 _Strange: Your name, please. It will be difficult to continue without it._

 _Joker: Then shut up._

 _With Strange's advisement, Quinzel moves on._

 _Quinzel: Alright, let's change the subject. You've willingly agreed to this interview, yes? Can you state for the record that you have no objection to talking?_

 _Joker: Oh, I'd rather act than talk, but these restraints… [Violent thrashing.]…well, they are rather restraining._

 _Strange: I must warn you that any further outbursts will not be tolerated._

 _Joker: And what are you going to do? Restrain me? [Laughter.]_

 _Quinzel: Can you tell me what happened to your face? How did you get the scars? Your medical report says you have scar tissue all over you body, not just your face._

 _Joker: You want to verify that, beautiful? [Wild giggles.]_

 _Quinzel: Just answer the question, please._

 _Joker: I like to think the smile suits me. Makes me seem less serious._

 _Quinzel: You were charged with murdering twenty-three people—_

 _Joker: Is that all?_

 _Quinzel: The people you killed or injured shared little in common. How did you select your victims?_

 _Joker: Oh, that's the standing issue, isn't it?_

 _Quinzel: Standing?_

 _Joker: If they can stand, then they can fall. That's all I ask._

 _Quinzel: Your complete lack of remorse and empathy is noted. Or rather, it's a given. But why is it that you're able to kill people? Is it because you see them as inferior to you? Nothing more than prey?_

 _Joker: I'm not about to get religious, so just pray yourself._

 _Quinzel: If you could drop the act for a minute, just between us, I want to ask you some serious questions._

 _Joker: I don't do serious. Didn't you read my file?_

 _Quinzel: You've been here for almost a year. How does that make you feel?_

 _Joker: I've enjoyed the break but I'm looking forward to a break from my break._

 _Quinzel: Can you give me a sense of why you do it? Why you kill people?_

 _Joker: Seriously?_

 _Quinzel: Would you say your urge to kill has certain triggers?_

 _Joker: No, but guns do._

 _Quinzel: You previously said you preferred knives over guns. Has that changed?_

 _Joker: No, no, no, no. I prefer knives. You want to know why?_

 _Quinzel: I can guess._

 _Joker: I love a good guessing game. [Giggles.]_

 _Quinzel: I imagine you prefer the intimacy of a knife over the efficiency of a gun. You like killing too much to gain any pleasure from a quick death._

 _Joker: [Laughter.] Oh, I like you._

 _Strange: Doctor Quinzel, now would be a good time to end the interview._

 _Joker: Nice tie, Strange, great shade of blue. Want me to tighten it until your face matches? Maybe pull your tongue out and staple it to—_

 _Strange: That's enough. Doctor Quinzel, if you will._

 _Joker: [Wild laghter.]_

The transcript ended there, followed with a few short notes from Doctor Arkham:

 _1._ _It is my belief that The Joker may possibly be living in chronic pain from the mutilation of his face._

 _2._ _In The Joker's mind there may be little or no difference between compulsion and whim. Just as he hides behind his scars, his twisted humor no doubt conceals deeper and darker urges._

 _3._ _His persona of a demented jester might be an act, but his psychosis is not. He belongs in Arkham, not in Blackgate._

 _4._ _The only predictable aspect of The Joker's psyche is its inherent unpredictability._

 _5._ _Given the chance he would kill again, and again—but how, why, and whom, could never be anticipated. His reasons are not random or but are so quixotic and impulsive they may as well be._

 _The Joker seemed willing to open up to Doctor Quinzel—more so than anyone else who has spoken with him. It would be beneficial, both to her and the patient, for her to interview him again._

Batman gritted his teeth beneath the cowl, his jaw jutting out slightly. The document ended there. It hadn't told Batman much more than he already knew. The only insight the doctors had gained with the profile was that the Joker simply couldn't be profiled. After opening the admission information, he learned that Hugo Strange had been the Joker's assigned psychiatrist until a month and a half previous—instead giving the patient over to Harleen Quinzel.

Arkham's notes had been right: the Joker had been overall cooperative with Quinzel. It would be worth a stop in her office to read her personal notes. They might hold a clue as to who might have helped him escape and, therefore, lead to his re-capture.

He powered down the computer and removed the USB. Sneaking past the spider's web again, Batman exited through the window, intent on calling Alfred over his head piece. Before he could utter a word, Alfred contacted him first.

 **\~/**

 **End Chapter Twelve  
Special thanks to Doug Moench and Chris Nolan.**


	13. Booty Call

**Gotham County, Bristol, Home of John Daggett**

Roland Daggett sat perched on the old office chair behind the modern style desk. No light illuminated the space beyond the singular lamp light at the edge of the glass-top desk. He sat in impatience, tapping his well manicured nails across the glass. Echoes of chamber music and the soft murmur of overlapping conversation reverberated from the ballroom and through the opulent halls of his brother's mansion—passed the guards outside and into his brother's personal office. Daggett should have been downstairs with his brother, schmoozing the investments out of Gotham's one percent—not sitting in the dark twiddling his thumbs.

Daggett started when there was movement in the corner of his eye, a tapping sound accompanying a small shape that skidded across the glass-top before it slid into his lap. The man looked up from his lap and into the darkness of the expansive study, glaring in irritation at the empty space. A voice sounded from the darkness but still he could not place its origin.

He knew her voice as soon as she spoke. "You owe me fifteen-thousand."

Furrowing his brow, Daggett clicked his tongue, "We agreed on ten."

The voice scoffed, sounding vaguely amused. "And now it's fifteen. I had to call in a big favor from some powerful people for this."

His eyes fell down to the USB drive in his lap. Picking the small rectangle up, Daggett turned it in his hands, thoughtful. "Fine."

Frowning beneath her mask, Red X couldn't stop herself from questioning. "You don't want to check the USB first?"

Daggett glared into the darkness of the office. "I've been waiting for over an hour. I don't have time to check it." He opened his computer and immediately started clicking and typing. Daggett only spent a minute transferring the money into the appropriate account. "Besides, I trust you, sweetheart. I can trust _you_ to keep yourself alive. You know if you cross me, I'll kill you."

"You shouldn't trust anyone, Roland. You live in Gotham City and half your income is dirty." Red X remarked, her tone light. As per their usual meetings, Red X remained hidden in the shadows; he didn't concern himself with her behavior.

Daggett smirked. "I have a lot of money. People listen to money."

"Your money isn't trustworthy. Neither is your brother's."

He laughed at her. " _Fear_ is trustworthy. And John and I learned a while ago that you can buy fear. And respect for that matter.

"There," Daggett sighed. "The transfer's processing. And I have another job for you."

"Can I ask a question?" She didn't wait for a response. Red X's voice turned thoughtful. "You and John are pretty brave hosting a party while The Joker is loose."

"That's not a question." He clicked his tongue and worked his jaw. "He's kidnapped Commissioner Gordon. We figured the Joker's too busy to be any threat to us."

"How do you know The Joker's after the commissioner?"

Daggett's face scrunched, confused, "Because that's the whole reason we let him out. Gordon's had a target on his back for years. If we're lucky, he'll take out Batman too. Didn't Beaumont tell you any of this?"

Red X was silent for a long time and Daggett felt the weight of that silence in the pit of his stomach. Was he being played? He went for his gun.

"Well I'll assume that means _Batman's_ too busy to stop this."

Daggett didn't react in time.

 **\~/**

Red X had to hold back the stirring in her stomach when she yanked the hunting knife from Daggett's throat with a _squelch_. Warm blood splattered her mask and, she was sure, other sections of her costume. She'd smacked his temple with the butt of her knife. He'd been unconscious when she killed him; hadn't felt a thing, not even when she'd tightly wrapped the red tape around his head in her signature X-shape. It was extremely important that she marked all of her kills.

His body made a hard _thud_ as it slammed into the floor along with his brother's office chair. The body guards wouldn't make it inside before she had left the room.

Killing unsuspecting men continued to be unsatisfying to Red X.

Once she had escaped Daggett's mansion mostly undetected, Red X picked up her phone and called the first number on her 'Recent' list. The phone rang only twice before the voice of a woman answered, other voices speaking loudly in the background. The woman was at a party of some kind.

"I told you never to call me before midnight."

"Way to make this sound like a booty-call." Red X rolled her eyes but didn't give the woman time to respond. "The Joker made his move. Batman's busy saving the commissioner."

Red X could hear the other woman scowl. "Yes I know that," the woman whispered. "So?"

 _"So_ … I took the opportunity to take care of Roland Daggett."

There was a long pause before the woman quickly muttered, "Hold on." When the background noise lessened, the woman spoke again. "Why did you do that?"

"I wasn't going to get the opportunity again," Red X reasoned. "Roland and his brother are rarely apart and Batman is distracted."

The woman sounded nothing less than enraged as she muttered into the phone. "I'm _here_ right now, you moron! I'm _in Daggett's house!_ "

"You have a hundred eye witnesses to attest to the fact that you were in the ballroom when Roland died." Red X stated blandly, not in the mood to argue. "This is a good thing."

Red X heard a heavy sigh on the other end of the line. The woman spoke again, her anger still apparent, "You're a damn idiot. From now on, you don't do _anything_ without my say so. Do you understand?"

"Sure." Red X relented. There was a brief pause where she bit her lip, wondering if she should ask the question on her mind. "I'm still expecting to be paid."

"Now really isn't the time to have that discussion." The woman spat. Red X heard the woman blow air out of her nose before the woman spoke again. "You'll get paid when you finish."

She'll get paid when she finishes? With a small snort, Red X barely stopped herself from making another sex-related joke. She didn't want to deal with an angry client. "So considering how angry you are, I probably shouldn't go ahead with the other two tonight, then?"

"No," the woman's answer was immediate. "I need Thorne to do something, _assuming_ _he_ _will_ now that Roland's gone. He'll be suspicious but not as suspicious as he would be if _three_ of his four business partners were murdered in one night. Wait until tomorrow, after your job with Sionis. _And confirm with me first_. Got it?"

"And Batman?" Red X challenged.

There was a long pause before she spoke again, "Leave him to me."

"Yes, ma'am."

 **\~/**

 **End Chapter Twelve**


	14. Rising Action

**ECCHYMOSIS  
CHAPTER FOURTEEN**

 **Downtown Island, Old Gotham, Gotham Receiving Hospital**

"The bullet went through her spine," the attending physician informed, his tone only tinged with sympathy. "I'm afraid her legs are completely useless."

The physician looked to the detective to his left, purposefully avoiding looking at the other figure in the room. There was an unspoken agreement between them all, The Joker's return to Arkham was more important than catching the returned vigilante. So the elephant in the room went unmentioned by the two uncomfortable men trying not to stare at the man in the rubber bat costume.

Bullock stared back at the doctor, not quite so uncomfortable with The Batman as he was with the traumatized woman laying unconscious on the hospital bed.

The physician continued his speech in a reserved tone as he made to quickly and rudely exit the room. "Putting it bluntly, she may well be in a chair for the rest of her life. Now if you'll excuse me, I have other patients."

The door clicked shut behind the retreating doctor.

"Prick," Bullock grunted, slicking his sausage fingers through his wisps of hair. His eyes slid from the door and to the imposing vigilante across the room from him. Wasting no time, the detective started shooting out facts—everything he knew from the crime scene.

"The babysitter, name of Colleen Reece, brought the kids home to find the, uh, victim in a state of undress. Otherwise the place was empty but the commissioner was—"

"Undress?" Came Batman's questioning growl.

Bullock faltered, surprised that Batman didn't already know. Then he found himself pissed and cursing every other officer on the force that he—of fucking course it'd be him—had to be the one to deliver the disturbing news.

"They didn't tell you," Bullock more stated than asked. He shoved his hands in the pockets of his overcoat. "He'd removed her clothing after shooting her, uh… Well, we found a lens cap—like the kind you got on expensive cameras but it didn't fit any camera we found on sight. We think, uh…"

Bullock scratched the back of his head, cursing his partner and the damn doctor that left the room already—abandoning him to report this all on his own. The Batman said nothing, brooding in patient silence for Bullock to finish. "Well," Bullock muttered, disgusted, "he took some pictures. Of her.

"Jeez, look. Really I'm sorry. I thought you knew already." Bullock apologized sloppily, continuing to shove his foot further and further into his mouth. "It's pretty sick, ain't it."

The vigilante was silent for a length of time while Bullock gripped the loose fabric of his pants through his coat pockets.

"Yes. Pretty sick," Batman admitted lowly, not abandoning his tough exterior. "Please leave us alone for a moment."

Bullock was all too ready to get the hell out of there. He rushed out and the door clicked behind him. The detective stood outside for a mere three minutes before the Batman was rushing out of the hospital room, slamming the door open and marching through hospital staff.

"Woah, woah. Wait," Bullock called, chasing the vigilante to the end of the hall. "Batman!"

Batman turned around to look at the detective and said only this. "She knows where they went. Left a ticket behind. Bonus Brothers Carnival. Send everyone you can. I'm going ahead."

Bullock glanced behind him. "The old carnival? Are you sure? You was only in there for—" But when he looked back, following the usual pattern, Batman was gone.

The window at the end of the hall was open and Bullock heard the crack of thunder sound close by.

 **\~/**

 **End Chapter Fourteen  
Special thanks to Alan Moore and Brian Bolland.**


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